


Art J^T ** 



age* $h ® ogfe £fe,- 








LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 



Chap. ._. Copyright No.„__ 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



APR 4 m$ 



"LIFE" SERIES. 

Love took up the glass of Time, and turn'd it in his 

glowing hands ; 
Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden 

sands. 

Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the 

chords with might; 
Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in 

music out of sight. 



LIFE 



' SERIES. 



Lowell Times,— The books are very beautiful, and 
excellently adapted for simple gifts. Their value, 
however, is in their contents: self -development, 
helpfulness, unselfishness, great-hearted manliness. 



The House Beautiful, 

As Natural as Life, 

In Love with Love, 

A Child of Nature, 

Power and Use, 

Being and Doing, 

Farther On, 

Love Does It All, 

What Are You Doing Here ? 

A Boy^s Life, 



\ William C. Gannett 

Charles G. Ames 

V. James H. West 

Marion D. Shutter 

John W. Chadwick 

W. C. Gannett, and others 

M. J. Savage, and others 

Ida Lemon Hildyard 

Abram Conklin 

H. D. Stevens 



Baltimore American. — There is a strengthening, 
tranquil, uplifting power in these little books that 
makes one cherish for them, when they have been 
enjoyed and laid aside, the warm, grateful senti- 
ment with which we treasure dear friends. 

Cloth, beveled, neatly stamped, each 50 cents. 

Special white and gold edition, full gilt edges, in box, 

each J5 cents. 

*#* For sale by booksellers, or sent, postpaid, on 
receipt of price, by 

JAMES H. WEST CO., Publishers, 

Boston, Mass. 



A BOY'S LIFE 



Its Spiritual Ministry 



HENRY D. STEVENS 



The spirit only can teach. 

—Emerson. 



££ 



BOSTON 
James H. West Co., Publishers 



I X 



u 2 2 t I 



30040 



Copyright, 1899, 
By JAMES H. WEST. 



TWO copi&s R£cr:iVcO, 






^ APR 4- 1819 









en 



TO 

Arthur' s brother balph, 

this little book 

of pbecious memories. 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Tribute vi 

Introductory Word vii 

PART L— PICTURES AND INCIDENTS. 

The Human Tie 13 

"I'm Home at Last" 20 

A Picnic Excursion 23 

"Morning-Glories are in Blossom" ... 27 

"I Live for Those who Love me" . . . . 31 

Flecks of Sunshine 36 

"Boys and Girls Together" 47 

Going to Vermont . . '. 57 

PART II.— SADNESS AND GLADNESS. 

Through Tears of Memory 65 

Things Sweet to Remember 72 

The Story of the Dragon-Fly 81 

The Ministry of his Life 90 

" Hope, Hope, Hope " . 103 

"O Fair, Chaste Saint" ...... . . 114 




Arthur helped in the writing of this story 
of a Boy's Life. Indeed, he is the author of it 
far more than I ; for he first lived so beautifully 
that it made the telling of this true story of his 
life possible ; and then his memory, when he 
was gone, became the spiritual influence that 
prompted to its writing. Lastly, the thought of 
him, of all he has been to me, and is, has urged 
me to make this acknowledgment of my precious 
indebtedness. 



* 




INTRODUCTORY WORD. 



Why should not the story of a boy's life be 
written as well as the life of a man ? Has he 
not lived and acted, thought and suffered, and 
known serious experiences ? It is certain that 
a boy lives his first years more keenly alive to 
the things about him than does the adult man. 
Children are very much alive; they are fresh 
and as yet unspoiled human nature. No coarse 
experiences have removed the bloom from their 
thoughts, no love for the sordid things of life 
has crowded out its finer meanings. The great 
wonder at the beautiful world into which they 
have been so unconsciously ushered still glistens 

(vii) 



Vlll INTRODUCTORY WORD 

in their eyes, and they live a charmed life in a 
real world, seeing much of the beauty and feel- 
ing much of the poetry of it, fresh as from the 
hand of God. 

Are we not far too unconscious of the spiritual 
meaning and emotional education for us of the 
lives of the boys and girls living in the familiar 
intimacies of our own households ? Too pain- 
fully true is it that we do not reverently 
recognize them as God-sent, and are often 
unaware of the value and extent of their delicate 
ministry. In truth, they bring to us our deep- 
est joys, our tenderest happiness, and those 
emotional experiences which, lying deepest, are 
unforgettable. Indeed, they mould us fully as 
deeply as we mould them, and in ways very 
essential to our highest spiritual growth. 

As I look back at Arthur's short life of only 
sixteen years, I find in its incidents and events 
nothing that sets it outside the ordinary lives of 
other boys. It was simple and healthful, — the 
gradual unfolding of a boy's nature and the 






INTRODUCTORY WORD IX 

development of his character amid the usual 
experiences of American f amily life. But there 
was a nobility of impulse and motive in it, 
and a sweetness of spirit about it, which was 
unmistakable. It was my blessed privilege to 
have known this transparent soul, and to have 
lived with him in the sacred intimacy of family 
life. It was not only the parental and filial, but 
also the spiritual friendship of father and son, — 
a oneness of spirit that was felt and enjoyed by 
both, and that drew us together in closest 
sympathy in all our common experiences. What 
that life has been to me forms a secret chapter 
illustrative of the spiritual influence of one life 
upon another. In him was to be seen and felt 
what is humanly meant by "the beauty of 
holiness." His character taught, by its pres- 
ence; his spirit became a ministry in itself. 
And knowing how suggestive, helpful and con- 
straining an influence it has been, how deeply 
rooted in the spiritual life were its lessons, I 
have thought that others might be aided and 



X INTRODUCTORY WORD 

inspired by its brief recital. The gracious min- 
istry of his short life, broken in earthly form 
though it be, may thus be widened and find 
entrance into other lives by the power of example 
and incitement. 

Because of this dear boy I knew, all boys to 
me are fair; and I look at them in hopeful 
expectancy, to watch the coming forth of their 
diviner promise. If this simple narrative of a 
real boy's experiences and influence shall help 
others to lead more beautiful and helpful lives, 
both Arthur and I will be glad together. 

H. D. S. 




PART I. 

PICTURES AND INCIDENTS. 



Heaven lies about us in our infancy. 

— Wordsworth. 

Children are God's apostles, day by day 
Sent forth to preach of love, and hope, and peace. 

— Lowell. 

Child-heart — mild-heart ! 

Ho, little wild heart ! 

Come up here to me out o' the dark, 

Or let me come to you ! 

— James Whitcomb Riley. 

Fair are the children and the flowers, 
But their subtle suggestion is fairer. 

— Richard Realf. 

Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful world, 
With the wonderful water round you curled, 
And the wonderful grass upon your breast, — 
World, you are beautifully drest. 

— W. B. Rands. 

Blessed childhood, which brings down something 
of heaven into the midst of our rough earthliness. 

— Amiel. 
(12) 



A BOY'S LIFE. 

PART I. 

PICTUKES AND INCIDENTS. 



I. 



THE HUMAN TIE. 

Of all the places on earth 
I'd rather have had for my birth, 
None is half so full of bliss 
As dear old Indianapolis. 

These simple lines were found pencilled in 
Arthur's handwriting in a school note-book. 
They seem to have been written to express his 
strong preference for the actual place of his 
birth over all other possible birth-places ; and we 
feel sure he thus sought to express in this artless 



14 

rhyme his special love for this inland city where 
he was born and spent most happily the first six 
years of his life. Other places he liked and 
enjoyed, but this seemed more like home to his 
boyish recollections than any of the other places 
of our residence. 

Probably his pleasantest memory of this home- 
city life was connected with the last house in 
which we lived. It was a small, low, brown 
cottage in a large yard and surrounded by a 
profusion of trees, shrubs and flowering plants. 
Here were fruit-trees and grape-vines and berries 
in abundance, and the quiet seclusion which is 
possible about the last house on the street. It 
was like living in the country, and yet we felt 
enough of the stir and life of the city about 
us to overcome the sense of isolation. Here 
were large, open spaces of greensward for play- 
ground, and all that wealth of material for 
play-purposes which makes glad the heart of 
children. Under the maple-trees hung a swing, 
while the notes of the meadow-lark came cheerily 
up from the meadow below. It was a home-like 
and true nesting-place for the opening wonder 
and vivid imaginations of young childhood, 
and here the longest and happiest days known 



a boy's life 15 

in the lives of our children were spent. It was 
the one idyllic experience for us all; for the 
parents shared with their children the enjoyment 
of its natural freedom and secluded happiness. 
We were made to recall for ourselves the gladly- 
remembered ecstasy of our childhood-days, seeing 
it lived over again in our own children, and could 
easily enter by a re-awakened sympathy into 
that never to be repeated experience of theirs — 

"When the heart beats young and our pulses leap 
and dance, 
With every day a holiday and life a glad romance." 

It was our earthly Paradise, and the only 
regret now is that we did not then more fully 
and keenly realize what it held for us all. 



He had been very sick. It was the dreaded 
scarlet-fever that had sent its poisonous germ- 
emissaries to lay siege to the little citadel of his 
health. He was at that time the only victim of 
its malign activity ; we knew not whence it came, 
no one could trace it to its deadly lair. For days 
and weeks it had slowly undermined his strength 



16 

and wasted his vitality. His body had shrunken 
to a skeleton. I was sitting one morning hold- 
ing his loved body in my arms, when suddenly 
upon the March air the untamed notes of a bag- 
pipe drifted indistinctly into the room. Nearer 
and clearer they came. I was strangely affected, 
even fascinated, in listening to these sounds, so 
unfamiliar to American ears ; and something in 
them carried a vaguely prophetic meaning — an 
elusive suggestion of impending calamity. It 
distressed me, and I was glad when it was gone. 
The days that followed were days of deepest 
anxiety. The little life seemed to droop lower 
and lower. His pulse was at the danger-point — 
the doctor could offer no hope. We were prepar- 
ing ourselves for the impending worst. Tender- 
est affection had done its best service. Sleepless 
days and nights for weeks had been gladly 
accepted for the dear boy's sake, but skill and 
affection seemed equally helpless and hopeless. 
And there, as he again lay, one never to be for- 
gotten morning, on my arm, we alone in the 
room, my spirit fell upon its face before what 
seemed the inevitable loss and the just demand 
of violated Nature. And then I thought it all 
over, — of what his life had been to me, short as 



17 

it was, of what all its precious promise to me 
might mean in the years to come, of all my need 
of his life, — because I loved him so. And then, 
if ever I prayed, my prayer ascended to the 
Father-Life of us all, pleading with all the earn- 
estness a father can feel, that my dear baby boy's 
life should be spared to me now, even if only for 
just a little while longer — a few years more, I 
urged. If it were best, yea, if only it were 
possible, I asked the granting of this gift to my 
life; that this deep prayerful longing of my 
inmost heart be not denied me. My hope 
trembled, but it was still hope. Then a peace 
seemed to come over me ; I had done all I 
could. 

The climax of his disease had been reached, a 
change came, and it was — oh, joyous conscious- 
ness — a change for the better. It seemed that 
my heart's beseeching was to be fulfilled. His 
little fluttering breast, that for long days had 
been like a frightened bird's, began to grow less 
agitated, the fever loosened the deadly per- 
sistency of its hold, and soon the dear boy could 
sleep upon a pillow, instead of upon my shoulder 
where he had lain and lived for weeks. Slowly 
came back the healthier pulse of a renewed life ; 



18 a boy's life 

and with yearning hope we nursed the little life, 
which had been trembling on the danger-line, 
to a recovery of nearly its former strength. 

Although thus spared to us at this time, the 
effects of this poisonous disease remained, and 
was probably the main cause of all his later 
sickness and ill-health. 



One incident of these days of convalescence 
is treasured up as a pleasant memory. After he 
had recovered sufficiently, he was allowed to run 
out of doors ; and upon one tonic April morning, 
the sun shining brightly, he sped gleefully out 
along a path through the yard, a tassel dangling 
from his Turkish cap as he ran back and forth, 
and feeling keenly the joy of once again being 
alive and able to play. As he drew near on one 
of his return trips, he warbled out, with an 
inimitable cadence of happiness, to us who stood 
watching him, these words : " I love the pretty 
sunshine ! " 

This seemed his veritable song of praise for 
restoration to health, and in it he seemed also 
to have compressed his love for the brightness 



A boy's life 19 

of these spring days and for the goodness of life. 
This little incident illustrates his habitual atti- 
tude, throughout his whole life. He looked for 
and loved the beautiful things in life, and he 
turned towards its sunshine as naturally as would 
a flower, enjoying its warmth and brightness as 
only a sensitive nature could. The joy in his 
heart was met and answered by those scenes in 
Nature upon which the sunshine lavished her 
prodigal wealth of life and hope. 




II. 



"i'm home at last." 

\ I J hen about four years of age Arthur went to 
* * spend one day, in Summer, with his grand- 
parents. The day was very warm, and the dis- 
tance about half a mile. His father left him 
happy at their house, and, by agreement, was to 
call for him later in the day, when returning 
from his work. 

Arthur had never been away from home before 
for such a length of time, and so this became a 
very memorable event in his boyish life. He 
spent several hours very happily with " grand- 
ma's folks," but, the day proving longer than he 
had expected, he at length grew thoughtful and 
restless and tired of his amusements, and said he 
would like to go home. They tried to persuade 
him to wait until "papa" came, but that seemed 
too long a time to wait, for this anxious and 

(20) 



21 

now thoroughly homesick little boy. And so, 
bidding them " good-by," he started home alone, 
along streets and through cross-lots, by the 
same route he had taken in the morning. 

He must have walked rapidly, as his desire 
to get home had now grown more intense. He 
then truly experienced what is meant by " the 
heat and the burden of the day," for he was 
tired, heated, and worried about getting home, 
and this little trip must have seemed to him as 
long as one of many miles to an older person. 
He evidently became quite discouraged during 
the trip, — at its apparently increasing length, 
and at the slowness of his progress; for no 
doubt his desire to get home more than kept 
pace with his short, boyish steps. Is it pos- 
sible for us of older years to fully appreciate 
the agitation, doubt and fear which filled the 
mind of this little boy of four, as he trudged 
along on that hot summer afternoon in hope of 
soon reaching the end of his homeward journey ? 
Only the sympathy of imagination can tell us, 
for the trials of childhood are in truth as great, 
to the children concerned, as are life's later 
experiences to those who meet them in their 
maturer years. 



22 a boy's life 

But at last the seemingly long journey drew 
to an end, as the little brown cottage among the 
trees known as " home " came into sight and his 
dusty feet hurried through the gateway. Pant- 
ing still with excitement, with his large eyes 
full of the most serious gaze,— with a sigh of 
satisfaction as at an escape from some awful 
fate, and with a never to be forgotten tone of 
pathos, he exclaimed to his mother, as he caught 
sight of her face, — "Pm home at last! " 




III. 

A PICNIC EXCURSION. 

Tt was to be a Sunday-school picnic up the 
* river, on a beautiful steamboat. Our Sunday- 
school and a neighboring one had joined numbers 
and enthusiasm for the occasion, and a most 
delightful outing was in prospect. 

To all of our family it was then a refreshing 
novelty, while, for our two boys, it was to be an 
experience transferred from out the dreamland 
of boyhood's imagination into the rare enjoy- 
ment of actual realization. What an exhilarating 
experience it was, as we stood on the temporary 
landing or wharf on the river-bank above Moline, 
and saw the "White Swan/' gay with flags 
and bunting, and resounding with band-music, 
come ploughing and puffing through the swift 
current of the Mississippi river, directly towards 
us ! It was a sight to stir the blood of enjoyment 

(23) 



24 

in veins less rapid than those of childhood — 
it made us all young together. As we walked 
on board, the boat seemed like a huge bird of 
festivity which was going to allow us to ride on 
her back as she sped up the river, sailing proudly 
and easily on the bosom of the Father of Waters. 

The picnic rendezvous was only a few miles dis- 
tant, and the trip just long enough to pass a few 
islands and to catch glimpses of the little ham- 
lets upon either shore. Soon the boat swung to, 
upon the Iowa bank, and " tied up " opposite a 
smooth plateau of ground covered with scattered 
groves, and through one side of which ran a 
small brook that emptied its tiny thread of life 
into the great current. The older people and 
youths and maids at once sought the shelter of 
the trees, while the children scattered about in 
all directions, seeking various forms of personal 
enjoyment, a good deal as butterflies flit about 
over flower-laden fields for the choicest sweets. 
Some, already hungry, went to sample the lunch- 
baskets; some began playing ball and croquet, 
while others fitted up swings and hammocks. 

Our boys had come especially prepared for 
fishing. To catch a good-sized fish out of that 
big river would be such a notable feat for small 



25 

boys who had always lived inland ! and therefore 
this became the one engrossing ambition for the 
hour. Getting the tackle in order, they were soon 
seated upon the river-bank at the point where 
the brook suddenly lost its being in the yellow, 
muddy waters, and cast in their lines. Arthur 
had not been waiting long in this patient manner 
for results, when, as a result of watching the 
swiftly-rolling water, he suddenly became dizzy, 
lost his balance, and plunged headlong into the 
river, which at this point was quite deep. He 
could not swim ; and, the accident happening so 
unexpectedly, it would have been quite natural 
for so young a boy to lose his presence of mind 
and run the great risk of being drowned. 

Some one cried out that Arthur had fallen 
into the river. What did he himself do ? For 
one thing, he did not lose his self-possession, but 
exercised his usual habit of being cool and self- 
poised. He told us afterwards that, as soon as 
he became conscious of what had happened, and 
realized that he was down under the water, he 
thought of the danger of strangling; and at 
once there came into his mind the advice which 
his Sunday-school teacher had given the class of 
which he was a member: namely, whenever 



26 

thrown under the water, to shut the lips tightly 
together and hold the breath. This he did, and 
by so doing soon managed to come to the surface 
without getting water in his lungs, and was ready 
and able to grasp the extended hand of his older 
brother, who had now come to his rescue. This 
action of Arthur's, — considered and carried out 
under the water, — had doubtless saved his life ; 
and it is illustrative of that habitual calmness, 
and thoughtfulness of demeanor under exciting 
circumstances, which were always conspicuous 
in his career. 

The pleasure of that Sunday-school picnic, so 
bright in anticipation, had suddenly been short- 
ened and spoiled for him, but he had no complaint 
to make. He remained in his berth on the boat, 
beside his mother, until the return home. 

This accident was a graphic example to those 
present of the value of cool self-control in 
perilous moments, and it served also to illustrate 
the uncalculated influence and result of the seed- 
sowing of wise practical thoughts, when dropped 
into the receptive soil of a young boy's mind. 






IV. 

" MORNING-GLORIES AEE IN BLOSSOM." 

[ can see him now, and hear that childish 
* treble as it sought to bring these simple 
words, again and again repeated, within the 
meter of the song he had improvised for the 
occasion. I say improvised, but really it w 
song of gladness gushing out of the fullness of 
his youthful heart. It was like the singing of a 
young bird just trying its first notes of exuberant 
joy at the gift of life. 

Between the old stone church and the parson- 
age, at Alton, on the high bluffs overlooking 
the Mississippi, there was a narrow, shady space 
where, in summer days, we were wont to sit 
and catch the cool breezes always wandering 
by. Underneath a maple-tree was a wooden 
bench facing the house, and upon one end of 
this the boyish chorister had unpremeditatively 

(27) 



28 

taken his seat. He must amuse himself, for his 
older brother and his mother were confined to 
their rooms by a mild sickness Beneath the 
window some morning-glory seeds had been 
planted in the Springtime, and now, in August, 
the vines had begun to send forth their slowly- 
unfolding, tapering buds. 

Arthur's sharp eyes had caught sight of a few 
of these buds which had suddenly burst into 
full bloom, and had gleefully brought the news 
to me, urging me to come and look at their 
delicate beauty. Soon afterwards, as he still 
sat looking at the fragile blossoms, I heard him 
softly singing to himself: "Morning-glories are 
in blossom ! Morning-glories are in blossom ! " 

Over and over went the refrain. And as I 
stood at a chamber window, looking down at him 
as he spontaneously wafted this little musical 
poem out upon the currents of the joy and har- 
mony of life which he saw and felt all about 
him that summer morning, I was entranced with 
admiration and love at the beautiful sight. 
Here were childish joy and innocence, peace and 
contentment, all combined in one moment of 
exultant life, while his feet and hands kept time 
to the melody of his tender voice. He scarcely 



a boy's life 29 

took his eyes from the pink-and-white blossoms 
swaying in the sweet-scented wind as he sent 
half-unconsciously that little chanson out of the 
heart of innocent and happy boyhood. He must 
have felt himself, in those moments, played upon 
by some tender, irrepressible impulse flowing 
out of the heart of the Divine Harmony which 
floated his being upon its bosom, and the joy of 
it all broke into utterance through his childish 
lips. 

That little incident has been photographed 
upon my memory ever since with a distinctness 
which remains undimmed. The beauty of it all 
as a picture, and the touching melody of that 
glad refrain, I shall carry to my grave. What 
was the reason that it should thus impress itself 
so indelibly upon my consciousness ? It must 
have been because it was a vivid revelation of 
the oneness of the child-heart with the beauty 
and joy of Nature; of the happiness which 
suffused his heart and over-ran its trembling 
brim because his life was in tune with the Infi- 
nite Life. I have heard fine music rendered by 
renowned artists ; but I feel sure I would will- 
ingly do without them all to listen once again to 
that boyish voice as I heard it on that summer 



30 

morning singing with an indescribably sweet 
and artless inspiration that little verse of exceed- 
ing joy at the goodness of life: "Morning- 
glories are in blossom! Morning-glories are in 
blossom ! " 

Dear little boy-caroller of that far away sum- 
mer morning ! You sang better than you knew, 
for you sang out of the heart of a divinely- 
beautiful love and joy and hope. Your song 
was not lost, for it went straight home to my 
heart, and will continue to sing there forever- 
more. And here, in this page, I send it on its 
way, singing elsewhere and to others that same 
sweet, tender, impulsive refrain of joy at the 
goodness and happiness of life : " Morning- 
glories are in blossom I Morning-glories are in 
blossom ! " 




" I LIVE FOR THOSE WHO LOVE ME." 



I live for those who love me, 

Whose hearts are kind and true, 
For the heaven that smiles above me 

And waits my spirit, too ; 
For the human ties that bind me, 
For the task by God assigned me, 
For the bright hours left behind me, 
And the good that I can do. 

Y\ 7 hat beautiful words for any child to love; 
* * what a noble ideal for any child to try to 
live ! And he loved and lived these words. 
They are from a song with the same title, which 
Arthur learned from "The Carol/' a Sunday- 
school service-book, one Winter spent in northern 
Wisconsin, when he was eleven years of age. 
Other songs he sang and liked, others may have 
spoken to him in more alluring music ; but these 
words, and the music wedded to them, seemed 

(31) 



32 

to have found a peculiar and permanent place 
in his thought and affection, of which we did 
not know at the time. That he so dearly loved 
this particular song was most touchingly revealed 
to us during his last days, and so we came to 
know then that he must have "hid it in his 
heart" during all the intervening years. And if 
what we most deeply love reveals to us our true 
characters, then his love for this little song 
revealed his true character and the things in life 
which to him were dearest and best. 

It is with a sweetly sad pleasure that we now 
try to picture to ourselves the first delicate 
stirrings of tender emotion which came to his 
sensitive heart-life, as he read and sang from 
Sunday to Sunday these simple words of spiritual 
confession, — "I live for those who love me." 
This affectionate ideal must have found a swift 
response in the promptings of his unselfish 
spirit, for his life was ever tuned to the same 
key-note of the giving of himself for the welfare 
of others. Arthur could easily understand the 
meaning of these words of simple heart-avowal, 
and as an ideal of action and duty the song must 
have appealed most persuasively to his spirit, 
eagerly receptive of whatever was kind and 



A boy's life 33 

noble, pure and sweet. In connection with the 
simplicity of the song, the musical cadences, 
half sad, half pathetic, in which the words first 
sung themselves to him, seemed well fitted to 
carry so precious a thought straight home to the 
deepest feelings of so young and impressionable 
a boy. During all his life, Arthur did live " for 
those who loved him." To the divine harmony 
of this great and beautiful thought, he attuned 
his own life-work, and thence this loved song of 
his later years has become a part of the sweetest 
music of his memory. 

To those, furthermore, "ivhose hearts were 
kind and true" was he very naturally and sym- 
pathetically drawn ; for in these he found spirits 
congenial with his own. And how subtle is the 
attraction between such kind and true natures ! 
The being kind and the being true were the 
magnets which always drew his gentle spirit and 
held it obedient to its primal instinct of help- 
fulness to others. This impulse was very 
spontaneous in him. 

" For the human ties that hind me " expresses 
simply another reason for his liking of this 
song ; for he was very strongly attached to those 
bound to him by home or love ties. He felt 



34 A boy's life 

keenly and deeply the tender sanctities expressed 
by the words "son" and " brother," and he 
practised the sacred duties of the one as faith- 
fully as he exercised the fraternal privileges of 
the other. He enjoyed the living of the life 
made up of these tender human ties that bind 
us so strongly together in the domesticities of 
love and affection. 

"And the task by God assigned me " he also 
evidently believed in, for he lived by trust and 
hope, always. If he was to live, it would be 
best; and if he was not to live, that, also, he 
would accept as best. He did not question — 
he simply trusted. His belief was that God had 
given him something worth the doing, and he 
did not either shrink from or expect to escape 
that task. He ever stood ready to do his part. 

"The bright hours left behind me" was perhaps 
to him a prophetic foresight of what his own life 
should be to others when it was passed. For, 
brighter hours could no youth of sixteen years 
leave behind him, to comfort bereaved hearts, 
than did he. These hours and days of his were 
spent in such bright and sweet, such noble and 
wholesome ways, that there can be no thought 
of regret or sadness concerning them, now that 



35 

they have gone by and become a part of the 
irrevocable past. They are forever safe in 
precious memory, — the dower of a blessed 
spirit rich in youthful happiness and helpful- 
ness. 

"And the good that I can doP These were 
the words, in the song, summing up and con- 
densing all in the lines foregoing which had 
called forth the love and admiration of the boy- 
singer. And all this was what it meant to him. 
It told of these blessed ways and opportunities 
for doing good, and doing good was what he 
loved to do above all things else — this was his 
life. Goodness is love in action ; and to do good 
was his way of expressing his love to the little 
world about him. This was the gospel, the 
"good news," which he had loved from the 
beginning, and to the spreading of which he 
was earnestly glad to devote the brief days of 
his uncertain life. This little song was his 
Psalm of Life, treasured up and loved as the 
dearest he had ever known. 



VI. 

FLECKS OF SUNSHINE. 

\ 7ery happy were most of Arthur's days in 
* Iowa. He was glad to get farther South 
again, for he loved plenty of sunshine, and his 
health required the warmer air. He had been 
very sick, and as soon as fairly well again he 
entered with quiet participation, but keen zest, 
into the new life of the new home. Here we 
built us a new house, and Arthur helped as he 
could. He carved in the foundation-stone the date 
of the beginning of work on the structure, — 
"May 12, 1893." 

In this new locality of our residence, what a 
wealth of fresh things he did, delightful to a 
boy's heart! Among other things, there were 
many fishing-trips to the "Coon" river, and 
whether any " luck " rewarded his efforts, or not, 

(36) 



A boy's life 37 

the fun of the pastime was not lessened. It was 
the trying which was alluring; the testing of 
the unknown fish-life and possibilities hidden in 
the muddy waters along the banks. 

There were horse-back rides on " Dandy/' the 
old cream-colored pet horse of a neighbor, — a 
steed to whom it mattered little whether one, 
two, or three, mounted his back at one time and 
enjoyed the fun. What boy, older grown, would 
not envy these children the delicious sensation 
of their first horse-back rides — the moving, 
swaying and clinging to the horse's back as the 
great body of warm flesh cantered or walked 
whither the fickle wills of the motley band of 
youngsters directed. 

Or, it was a ride in the buggy with the same 
"Dandy" as motive-power, and with the boys 
and girls scattered about in all possible situations 
of youthful unrest and enjoyment. To a boy, 
what is more enticing than to be able to journey 
where one pleases by the mere pulling of a 
leather string, with a " cluck " to the old horse ! 
What boyish experience could seem more delight- 
fully satisfying, — this freedom of action, this 
novelty of enjoyment, such as a boy of twelve 
can know only once in his life ! 



38 A boy's life 

Sometimes the boys went over to "Beaver 
Creek " timber-land, to hold a " strictly private " 
picnic, — taking along with them lunch-baskets 
and fishing-tackle, and the keenest of appetites 
both for fun and food. Of course, the first duty 
would be to examine the contents of their 
baskets; for what healthy boy or girl is not 
hungry as soon as arrived on a picnic-ground ? 
Then there would be the gathering of wild- 
flowers, and of curiosities of vegetation or rock ; 
the swinging on wild grape-vines, the wading in 
shallow water, the hunting of bird's-nests for 
" one egg " for collection purposes, and all the 
various other odds and ends of enjoyment to be 
had in Springtime in the woods. 

" Not much to make us happy 
Do any of us need, 
But just the right thing give us 
And we are rich indeed." 

In this way the merry campaigns for simple 
fun and out-door enjoyment went on each sum- 
mer and winter season. 

The gathering of several albums of postage- 
stamps at this time afforded the boys much 
pleasure, and gave them considerable business- 



A boy's life 39 

correspondence as well as lessons in geography 
and current history. How they traded and 
"dickered" in these little bits of colored and 
pictured paper, a great deal as men enjoy the 
gathering and exchanging of bank-bills, — all 
children together. Very real and full of interest 
was this phase of his experience to Arthur. He 
kept his collections with care, and hours of inno- 
cent happiness came to him from this " playing 
at business." Moreover, it was as educative to 
him as is the doing of all things we enjoy, 
whether we call it work or play. 

It was while living here that Arthur bought 
and learned to play his first harmonica. His 
first efforts in this line were, to be sure, rather 
discouraging; but in a few weeks he could 
render easily various home and Sunday-school 
songs. Afterwards, he became quite an adept 
in its use, and could readily produce on this 
instrument any song or tune he had heard. One 
of my best remembered profile pictures of Arthur 
represents him at this and later times playing 
his harmonica with quiet enjoyment, beating 
time with his foot. This occupation brought to 
his music-hungry heart those simple strains of 
melody which he loved best, — songs of tender- 



40 

est feeling, others suggestive of home scenes and 
happiness. If the inventor of this little instru- 
ment could know of the many hours of real soul- 
enjoyment he has given to the years of boyhood, 
he would feel that he had not been an insignifi- 
cant agent in producing that youthful happiness 
which is a part of the music of the world. 

One incident of the life in Iowa illustrates 
afresh Arthur's habitual calmness and self- 
possession; and it came in a way to test any 
boy's courage and presence of mind. One sum- 
mer evening, we had left Arthur at a friend's 
house, playing with children both larger and 
smaller than himself, while we went to a sociable 
on the opposite side of the village. The sky 
was threatening, and, before we arrived at our 
destination, a small cyclone suddenly rose 
towards the west and swept down through the 
streets of Perry. The air was full of dust, and 
of the sound of loosening boards and shutters. 
Everyone sought shelter. At the house where 
Arthur was staying, some one had already spread 
the news that the telegraph had given warning 
of the approach of a cyclone ; and, in Iowa, this 
is a much dreaded piece of news. Naturally, 
when the fierce wind-storm mentioned darkened 



a boy's life 41 

the sky and threatened to bring destruction, the 
people in the neighborhood were alarmed, and 
all of the children had run hastily into the 
house, frantic with fear. " Grandpa" Willis 
stood in their midst, trying to quiet them, while 
they cried, trembled, shouted, and ran about in 
a half-frenzied manner — all except Arthur, who 
stood cool and undisturbed among them, seem- 
ing to have no fear for himself, and thinking 
and speaking only of the possible danger to his 
father and mother. 

His example of calm courage quieted the 
other children. The storm passed away with- 
out serious injury to any one. 



Between these flecks of sunshine came some 
dark days. Another attack of the rheumatism 
upon Arthur, while living here, brought renewed 
anxiety to our hearts. It was Winter, and for 
weeks he had withstood the pain hopefully and 
uncomplainingly. At last the pain reached his 
heart, and he was troubled to get his breath. 
He was obliged to sit with his arms thrown 
over the pillow in front of him. 



42 

It was while thus clinging to life for days, 
with his fortitude and patience nearly exhausted, 
that he turned on one occasion to his mother, 
who stood beside him, and said: "Mamma, I 
don't think I can hold on any longer." 

Life at such frequent times was so hard a 
struggle for him; it was so very painful and 
serious in comparison with his little enjoy- 
ment in it ; there was so much sickness between 
his short experiences of health, that at times he 
was ready and willing to give it all up. And 
still he hoped. 

Once there came a strange experience. Arthur 
and I often shared the same bed, if he was feel- 
ing badly. We had retired one night, and lay 
for some time talking of various things, when 
gradually our talk drifted to some experiences 
of his past life, to his frequent sicknesses, 
and, in some way, dying was referred to. He 
seemed to be feeling unusually serious, and, I 
thought, agitated by something that troubled his 
mind. I therefore finally said : 

"What is it, Arthur? Is there something 
that troubles you — something that you wish to 
tell me ? " 

Then he broke forth with such earnestness of 



a boy's life 43 

speech that I was startled, as he tremblingly- 
sobbed out these words, clinging to my neck : 
" Papa, I hope you won't die before I do." 
I was deeply touched, and tried to soothe his 
agitated thoughts by assuring him, as best I 
could, that he would always have some one to 
care for him whenever he was sick or in trouble. 
It was anxiety concerning this which troubled 
him. He knew that I understood his needs, 
and that he could always feel sure, while I 
lived, of that sympathy and love which his 
soul craved to have expressed. 

What a pathetic and prophetically prayerful 
wish was this, for so young a boy to make ! He 
was willing to go first, and preferred it to 
remaining behind alone, because he might not 
always meet with those "whose hearts were 
kind and true," those whom he could love, and 
to help whom he would wish to live. 



At one time we were obliged to be absent from 
home for two nights, and we left Arthur in the 
care of friends, where there were children with 
whom he could play. This was his first experi- 



44 

ence of absence from his parents for the length 
of time stated, yet he seemed willing to have us 
go. When we returned, he met us at the train, 
and seemed very glad to see us, yet he made no 
confession of the great test of his courage our 
absence had required. Just how glad he was 
to see us we never knew for a long time after- 
ward. When the news of his death, later on, 
reached this friend with whom Arthur had 
stayed, she sent us a consoling letter, in which 
were these pathetic words : 

" We were pained and surprised on hearing of 
the death of our little friend Arthur, whom we 
all loved and admired for his manly little ways 
and happy disposition. I think none of us will 
soon forget the day or two he spent with us ; 
how happy he seemed by day, and how he 
mourned at night for his father and mother. 
And I can imagine that his only sorrow, in leav- 
ing off this life for the brighter one, may be 
that of your loneliness and grief." 

This was a painfully sad reference to an 
experience at the time unknown to us, showing 
the same uncomplaining self-forgetfulness in 
connection with those he loved, however much 
he himself might suffer. " How he mourned at 



45 

night for his father and mother" tells it all. 
These words, coming to us when they did, 
seemed like the sweetly sad strains of some 
dear music which we had heard in the past 
and had forgotten, until we heard it again. 



Following this, came the ever-memorable ten 
days which all of us spent at the World's Fair 
in Chicago. On the trip to the city we stopped 
for a few weeks with friends at "Plowman 
Heights," on Eock Eiver, near its entrance into 
the Mississippi. Here we found an ideal sum- 
mer-resort, and passed days of idyllic pleasure 
on the hillside, among the trees. To the boys 
concerned it was an especially attractive and 
happy experience. It was, in fact, as near a 
Boy's Paradise as is possible to be realized. 
What with rides bare-back on the Shetland 
ponies, and with them harnessed in gigs, the 
fishing out of all waters within easy reach, the 
waking up in the morning to see flying-squirrels 
running overhead, the finding afterwards of 
their nesting-place in the split trunk of a tree, 
the sleeping in tents out of doors, the black- 



46 

berrying and water-melon experiences, and the 
farewell bonfire on top of the hill just before 
leaving; — these and other scenes and experi- 
ences have left sweetest memories of the happy 
days we all spent here in the company of con- 
genial friends, including many boys, and make 
one of the brightest pictures upon which we can 
look as we turn the kaleidoscope of memory's 
varied treasures. Here Arthur was merry and 
happy. 




VII. 
"boys and girls together." 

So nigh is grandeur to our dust, 

So near is God to man, 
When Duty whispers low, Thou must, 

The youth replies, I can. 

— Emerson. 

After living in the West for many years, it 
seemed best to come East, for the better 
education of our boys, for the new environments 
it would bring to us, and with the hope that the 
change might prove beneficial to Arthur. 

And during the first year of our residence in 
Massachusetts, his health greatly improved, and 
we were much encouraged, feeling that perhaps 
the critical point had been passed, and that he 
was now to outgrow the past weaknesses and 
tendencies implanted by the scarlet-fever of his 
early childhood. It was a year which he enjoyed 
very much, for it was full of change, of novel 

(47) 



48 a boy's life 

incident, and of new situations of peculiar 
interest to his maturing boyhood. 

On coming to Whitman, Arthur entered the 
Grammar School at once, and was soon promoted. 
This pleased him exceedingly, for it meant 
entrance into the High School the next year — 
an ambition which had been deferred owing to 
his enforced absence from school on account of 
his frequent ill-health. 

The pupils here were taught many things not 
usually included in school courses, namely : to 
observe the changes of the seasons, to look for 
the date of arrival of the first birds in Spring, 
of the first buds to open, and the first wild- 
flowers to appear. There were various short 
excursions into the country, collecting stones 
and minerals. Specimens of woods were ob- 
tained and labeled. And thus, as a whole, the 
love for Nature-study was called forth and grat- 
ified, at the same time that the mind was being 
disciplined in thought-studies. 

Into all these features of his school work and 
life, Arthur entered with unusual interest, for it 
meant out-door exercise, the free enjoyment of 
Nature, the satisfaction of his love for beautiful 
and interesting things. It meant especially the 



49 

formation at home of a cabinet-collection of the 
specimens secured. It meant also the Saturday 
holidays, with the rides on his bicycle to neigh- 
boring ponds, woods and rural resorts, in which 
often a small company of boys and girls, school- 
companions, would join. This was varied by a 
hunting-trip in Winter, by many fishing-trips in 
Spring, bicycle-rides to near-by ponds for bath- 
ing and swimming, the gathering of Mayflowers 
and other wild beauties of the woods, while in 
Summer there was the picking of blueberries, 
and picnic-trips to Nantasket and other resorts. 
He had, as associates, two boys of about his own 
age, and with them he spent many happy hours, 
studying and playing with them, trading stamps, 
working an electric battery, — all in the closest 
and freest intimacy of happy, fresh and dis- 
interested boyhood. 

It could hardly have been a happier experience, 
this of young school boys and girls together; 
and I never pass by the school-house without 
thinking of his happy days in it, and of my 
several visits to his room. I can see him in 
memory still, studying at his desk or rising to 
recite with that quiet modesty so characteristic 
of him. 



50 

There was a little verse he had learned, which 
he often repeated at home: 

" Build a little fence of trust 
Around to-day; 
Fill the space with loving words, 
And therein stay." 

And he did this spontaneously and habitually, 
living in the atmosphere of trust and cheer 
created at home by his own loving words and 
kindness of manner. 

Late in the spring term, there came to town 
a traveling photographer. Offering small tin- 
types at a minimum price, he secured the 
patronage of all the scholars. Arthur sat twice, 
and this proved one of those sadly fortunate 
little things which, looked back upon afterwards, 
seemed providential, for otherwise we should 
have had no late picture of him. 

Arthur arranged his " exchange " collection of 
tiny portraits in a group, on a large piece of 
card-board, with himself and his particular 
"chum" in the center, writing underneath: 

" Boys and Girls Together : Eighth Grade, 
1895-6." 



51 

This showed his care and foresight, however 
unavailing; for his idea evidently was that 
these pictures of his schoolmates, thus arranged, 
he could look upon with happy and tender 
recollections in future years. Ah! the sad 
sweetness of these little things done by children, 
in such implicit anticipation of future pleasure ! 
In this, how much they are like ourselves — 
they with their toys of a day, and we with 
ours ! 

Then came his happy summer vacation ; first, 
with three weeks spent at the "No Name" 
cottage at the sea-side, his and our first expe- 
rience of close contact with the ocean. This 
was followed by a few weeks quietly enjoyed at 
home, ending with a short trip alone to Vermont, 
to visit cousins whom he had not seen for five 
years. 

It surprised him to find that we thought he 
could make this trip by himself, but he was 
ready for it. He made all the preparations with 
his usual care, including a fishing outfit, and 
went off on the cars. The picture is with me 
yet, — of his sitting at the car-window with his 
white cap on, and smiling and waving his hand 
in farewell. So happy, oh, so happy ! 



52 a boy's life 

He mailed us a postal-card on reaching the 
station where his journey by rail ended, and 
then walked four miles, three of which were up 
hill, — a good woman on the way giving him a 
bowl of brown-bread and milk during a shower 
which overtook him. 

Gladsome, joyous days on the Vermont hill- 
side then followed, in which he breathed the 
tonic air and enjoyed the luxury of exultant life 
with every thought and motion. To this, add 
affectionate cousins, a table abundantly fitted to 
satisfy hungry appetites three times a day, and 
play-days all the time — was not this a boy's 
own land of Constant Delight? 

But these were too short and happy days to 
last, and the first of September found Arthur in 
Whitman again, ready and eager to enter the 
High School. This entrance was to be the 
gratification of the fond ambition of his later 
boyhood years. He had learned, by reason of 
the uncertainty of his health, to hold all his 
plans and wishes in abeyance ; but at last this 
great desire was to be fulfilled. 

Always very conscientious in preparing his 
lessons, he now took up his new school duties 
with the same sense of faithfulness. He became 



A boy's life 53 

a favorite with his schoolmates, and enjoyed 
keenly this new school-life of "boys and girls 
together." 

Arthur had a quiet and quick sense of the 
humorous things in life, and from this gift he 
got many happy compensations for the losses 
resulting from his deprivations. He gathered 
clippings of comic pictures and verses, queer 
sayings and jokes, and placed them in a scrap- 
book, entitled, "Book of Poems and Verses." 
He was also very facile and suggestive in the 
use of his pencil, and could easily draw free 
hand. This gift was often exercised in humor- 
ous scenes and situations, depicting some ex- 
aggerated personal peculiarity in those he met. 
He drew also birds, plants and flowers. His 
faculty of inventing unique and artistic varia- 
tions of capital text-letters promised something 
for future cultivation and use. His limited 
correspondence was always a pleasure to him, 
being conducted with great care, and with a 
maturity of expression unusual for one of his 
years. 

During a few months at this time he " carried 
papers," and gave to its conduct the same faith- 
fulness and system that he exhibited in all 



54 A boy's life 

things in which he engaged. He earned money 
enough out of this occupation to pay for a suit 
of clothes for himself, proudly showing me the 
receipt for the same when paid for. 



But Arthur's period of good-health gradually 
began to lessen its promise of permanent 
stability. There was a subtle and slow deteriora- 
tion of physical strength and vitality. His 
studies became more burdensome to him, one 
was dropped, and his teachers were requested to 
lighten the demands made upon him. In the 
Winter we wished him to drop out of school for 
awhile, until he might recover greater strength: 
but he could not think now of giving up his 
studies at the High School. He had been sick 
so often before, and had recovered his health 
so many times, — why could he not do the same 
now ? And so the winter months went by, in 
anxiety, and yet in hope of his improvement 
with the coming of Spring. 

Things were done to cheer him, and to give his 
mind diversion. In late Winter a Baby Hawkeye 
Kodak was bought, and this afforded him much 



55 

pleasure. He himself fitted up a " dark-room," 
and began to take and develop pictures, the 
printing of which he attended to on sunshiny 
afternoons. He also spent some spare hours in 
fixing up a small chamber which was to be " his 
room." Here he gathered together all his curios 
and relics and coins, and carefully arranged them 
in a small cabinet he himself had made. The 
walls of this room of his were decorated with 
favorite pictures, and with various artistic designs 
conceived and arranged by himself. All this gave 
him diversion and pleasure, and he continued 
making his plans for the future in his usual 
painstaking, cheerful way. 

But finally, in March, it became evident to 
him as well as to us that his school-duties were 
too exacting for one in his debilitated condition, 
and that he needed an entire release from study 
and work. At the spring vacation, therefore, he 
left the High School and remained at home, to 
renew if he might his health and strength. His 
teachers and school-friends called to see and 
encourage him, bringing fruit and flowers. He 
took short walks and was given carriage-rides 
that he might have the benefit of the open air. 
At times he felt strong enough even to mount 



56 

and ride away on his wheel for short distances. 
But all these exercises became less and less fre- 
quent, and in early May, with the Spring in its 
most inviting aspect, he was obliged to take to 
his bed. 

Sad and seemingly unnatural experience! — 
this lying down of a youth upon a sick-bed from 
which he is never to arise, and upon which at 
length he is to breathe out his last fluttering 
breath ! 




VIII. 



GOING TO VERMONT. 

Arthur did not seem to improve with the 
advance of the Spring, as we had hoped he 
would, and so we began to plan for a change of 
surroundings for him. Various suggestions were 
considered, but, as a final result of our consulta- 
tions, strengthened by the advice of the physician, 
it was thought best to try again the restorative 
power of the Vermont air and sunshine and higher 
altitudes. 

He was to go as soon as arrangements could 
be made, and his strength was sufficient for the 
journej'. But delays came in, to postpone ; and 
his strength became yet more uncertain. The 
days and weeks of May and of early June thus 
found him still waiting to go, and with the date 
not yet fixed. 

But the happiness of those last days to him 

(67) 



58 

was in hoping to go, and in planning all the little 
details of the looked-for trip. How joyfully he 
anticipated the pleasures of the proposed change, 
and how thoughtfully he planned for its execu- 
tion! At such times, the sweetest of tender 
smiles would shine upon his face, as he would 
suggest the many things he could do, up in 
"dear old Vermont"; and then his large, dreamy 
eyes would be filled with that look of happy con- 
tent which comes to children easily pleased with 
the prospect of gratifying their heart's fairest 
desire. He spoke of a kodak he wished to take 
along ; of the good times he was sure would be 
possible fishing for brook-trout on Uncle Austin's 
farm ; and of all the joys of the previous Sum- 
mer's experience, which he hoped to be able to 
duplicate, or even exceed, when once more upon 
the farm. 

It was this hope and expectancy which buoyed 
him up to his normal attitude of cheer and trust. 
He was so anxious to go that he could talk 
of little else. Time-tables were consulted, and 
a special one for his own use prepared on a piece 
of card-board ; letters were written, and all con- 
tingencies provided for. We had no serious 
doubt that it would not be possible for him to 
go, and our expectation cheered his own strong 



59 

desire into implicit belief. " Dear old Vermont," 
where is such air and water, grass and sunshine, 
as nowhere else, seemed the ideal place in which 
to recover his health. And then the fun, the 
sports, the romps and plays on the farm, the 
little out-door lunches and trips into the woods, — 
how entrancing all these visions seemed, luring 
and tempting the boy's mind, so hungry for the 
innocent pleasures of youthful life, he being now 
just at the age when he was best ready to enjoy 
these to the uttermost ! 

Oh, if he could only be well once more ! He 
loved to talk of it, over and over again, and 
dwelt with especial happiness on the enjoyment 
of fishing in and playing about a certain brook 
of clearest water, which ran gurgling, rippling 
and winding through woods and meadow, and 
was filled with the little " speckled beauties," 
the catching of which so tempts and calls forth 
a boy's skill. 

Talking about the brook was not enough to 
satisfy his craving for the deferred enjoyment 
of a drink from its brim. One day he wished 
to have a large saucer, filled with cold water, 
brought to him, so that he could play " drinking 
out of the brook." Lying upon one side, and 
placing his lips in the water, he quickly drew it 



60 

up with that peculiar sucking sound suggestive 
of brook-drinking when one's thirst leads to this 
primitive method of satisfaction. This "play- 
ing " at the real brook-drinking which he had so 
often practised in Vermont helped to keep up 
the illusion which always goes before the realiza- 
tion of happiness, — an illusion which, to all 
youthful minds, is so delightful to indulge in. 
But, the pathos of that touching incident, as it 
now rises before me ! The hungry, wistful look 
in his face, as he played thus with the fond 
fancies which filled his boyish heart; as he 
sought to make these once again real by the 
childish power of suggestion — this forms one 
of those fadeless pictures which belong to the 
sacredness of parental experience. 

When we recall how little it takes, usually, to 
satisfy a child's love for happiness, how do the 
frequent denials and deprivations of childhood 
rise up to condemn us ! Boys and girls belong 
to the out-door life of free Nature, and the primal 
enjoyments should be theirs with an unstinted 
freedom. 



The day at last had been set on which the 
journey to Vermont was to be made. And as 



A boy's life 61 

the time was only a few days away, the decision 
filled the boy's heart to the brim with the joy of 
expectation. 

He was soon to be sixteen years of age ; and 
he said, how fine it would be to spend his six- 
teenth birthday with his cousins on the loved 
Vermont hillside farm ! 

Each day was busy with the necessary prep- 
arations, and his eyes glowed with a deep sense 
of satisfaction that the start was so near at 
hand. 

The forenoon of his last day was busily spent 
in getting all the details of his little affairs into 
good shape, even to the writing of a postal-card 
after dinner. And then 



What strangely tender thoughtfulness of the 
Great Kindness, that all this should be done, and 
our eyes be shaded thus far, so that we could not 
see the end so near at hand ! The journey to Ver- 
mont was not to be undertaken, and what had 
taken place revealed to us why it was not best. 
The beautiful and delicate physical casket could 
no longer retain the jewel of such heavenly 
love and tenderness. The dear boy, who so 



62 

longed to go up among the Green Hills and spend 
his Summer there, was gently, and, oh, so kindly 
led, without pain, and with suspended conscious- 
ness, on, and on, towards the New Land of strange 
delights, until, as the evening shadows fell, he 
was peacefully ushered into the valleys of the 
Celestial Vermont, and his beautiful feet rested 
upon the hills that are forever green. 

Upon that eagerly-looked-forward-to sixteenth 
birthday of his, we laid his beautiful form away 
in the cool, dry bosom of mother-earth, in a 
sunny spot, in sight of and in nearness to his 
own last-known earthly home, his church, his 
high-school, and to the park and pond and 
roads with which he was so familiar. Only 
a week before his passing away, he had taken 
his last ride, and passed by this very spot where 
his weary body was to find sweet repose. 

The beautiful ripe June day was not more 
beautiful than was this earthly casket in which 
had dwelt, for sixteen years, so sweet, pure and 
holy a spirit. Under the shady branches of a 
young oak-tree we took our farewell look of the 
Divine Boy whom God had sent to bless our 
lives and the little world in which he lived. 



PART II. 

SADNESS AND GLADNESS. 
1? 



Out of the day and night 
A joy has taken flight. 

— Shelley. 

And looking over the hills, I mourn 
The darling who shall not return. 

—Emerson's "Threnody" 

Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high, 
Can keep my own away from me. 

— John Burroughs. 

Now I can love thee truly, 
For nothing comes between 

The senses and the spirit, 
The seen and the unseen. 

— Lowell. 

Grief should be 
Like joy, majestic, equable, sedate; 
Confirming, cleansing, raising, making free, 
Strong to consume small troubles ; to command 
Great thoughts, grave thoughts, thoughts lasting to 
the end. — Aubrey de Vere. 

Of perfect service rendered, duties done 

In charity, soft speech and stainless days : 
These riches shall not fade away in life, 
Nor any death dispraise. 

— Sir Edwin Arnold. 
(64) 



PART II. 

SADNESS AND GLADNESS. 



IX. 

THROUGH TEARS OF MEMORY. 

Some of the incidents and scenes of those last 
weeks stand forth in memory with that clear- 
cut distinctness which loving affection alone can 
outline and preserve. The tenderness of these 
seemed unusually touching at the time, but the 
coming of the Shadow has now made them doubly 
pathetic and precious ; and as we recall them in 
the present we see them through the tears of 
memory, — little pictures of the heart's remem- 
brance which are unforgettable. 

During the last weeks Arthur became, by 
reason of his steady decline and increasing 
weakness, even more strikingly child-like than 

(65) 



66 a boy's life 

was his habitual manner. It seemed as if he 
had again returned to his childhood years ; his 
voice and manner of speech became even more 
gentle and subdued. 

It was at this time that we first learned of his 
special affection for the touching song in " The 
Carol," before referred to, — "I live for those 
who love me." One day I was trying to sing it, 
from memory rather than from sight, though I 
had nearly forgotten it. I did not succeed very 
well, and Arthur, hearing, called to me to bring 
the book to him and he would show me how it 
should be sung. I can see now the smiling 
eagerness with which he took the book, and 
with a weakened, trembling voice began to sing 
forth the beautiful words to that half-sad melody. 
He sang it through, and very correctly, and then 
said to me : 

"Do you know, papa, that is my favorite song: 
the one I love best ? " 

Its beautiful application to his own life, and 
the memory of the above tenderly pathetic 
recital of it, has made a place for it in our mem- 
ories, very precious and indelible. And since it 
was sung at the home-service of final farewell 
as we sat looking upon his peaceful face, this 



67 

little heart-song of his special love can never 
be to us other than sacred music — it has been 
dedicated to his memory forever. 

One of his most habitual means of expressing 
his happiness, — indicative of his hopeful dis- 
position,— was by singing, the playing of his 
harmonica, or by whistling. Among his favorite 
songs were "Home, Sweet Home/' "The Old 
Oaken Bucket," " Sunlight in my Soul," with 
various medleys of a lively or humorous char- 
acter. His voice was naturally strong and clear, 
and its sweetness never more discernible than 
when singing. And yet perhaps his most char- 
acteristic enjoyment of music was in whistling 
the songs, tunes and hymns which he had learned 
and liked. Into this simple exercise seemed to 
go all the melody of his heart-life, all the cheer- 
fulness and hopefulness of his nature. A happy- 
hearted, whistling boy — what more joyous sight 
or sound ! One of the tenderest recollections of 
Arthur which comes to us is that of this spon- 
taneous bubbling over of his happiness at the 
simple fact of being alive. 

We most easily associate it with his home- 
coming in the twilight. Often when he had 
gone out to spend the afternoon with some boy- 



68 



A BOY ? S LIFE 



friend, as he started to return and drew near 
home he would begin whistling, and in such 
clear and exultant tones that we could hear and 
recognize it while he was yet far away. It was 
always unmistakable in its joyous tone of simple 
happiness — the sweet, warbling songs of this 
cheerful-hearted boy coming home at night-fall 
to those he loved ! Ah, those moments of delicate 
enjoyment, which the tendrils of a sacred asso- 
ciation hold so preciously intertwined in the 
memory, so that whenever is now heard by us 
the happy whistle of a boy passing near the 
house in the twilight, we, remembering, look up 
and into each other's faces, and see the hope, 
quickly sprung up there, as suddenly die down ! 



On the 13th of May occurred his mother's 
birthday. A joint contribution from the other 
members of the family had obtained for her a 
gold pen and pearl holder, and it was suggested 
that Arthur be allowed in the evening to do the 
surprising in a little speech of presentation. As 
the time arrived, he remained quiet a few min- 
utes, rehearsing the thoughts and words of it to 



69 

himself. Then he said he was ready, and with 
a pleased smile he recited it to me beforehand. 
Soon she was called into the room and made to 
know that Arthur wished to say something to 
her. With the little package in his hands, and 
a tender smile flitting over his face, he held out 
the little gift towards her, and said, in his soft- 
est, gentlest tones : — " In behalf of the members 
of this family, and in remembrance of this day, 
I hereby present you this token of our love." 

All our voices trembled a little, then, and the 
tears came, too. Arthur was happiest of all, for 
the gift was in exact keeping with his practice 
for many years. He was habitually thoughtful 
concerning the getting of gifts for the members 
of the family at the holidays and upon our 
several birthdays, always remembering these 
latter recurrences with some little token of 
remembrance made by his own hands. Into 
these went his exuberant, never-ceasing love for 
others. His heart's fondest longing was thus 
satisfied; for 

" It is only love that can give, 
It is only by loving we live." 



70 A boy's life 

Arthur's love for flowers was in harmony with 
his fondness for all things beautiful, sweet and 
good. On several occasions he had gone on trips 
to gather the early wild " Mayflowers " (Arbutus). 
Making them into little bouquets, he had remem- 
bered his friends with them. In the yard, under 
the horse-chestnut tree, grew large quantities of 
the early blue violets called " Johnny-jump-ups.'' 
He spent many hours among these, and could 
not let any child go away empty handed. He 
saw the first grass crocus springing up by the 
door-step, and watched for the first opening of 
each bud and blossom. On the last Sunday 
morning of his life, a wedding took place at our 
house, and the groom, learning of Arthur's serious 
and long sickness, sent in to him several of 
the beautiful white roses which the bride had 
held. This pleased Arthur much. They were 
placed beside his bed, where he could look at 
them and enjoy their fragrance; and there they 
remained, feeding his hunger for earthly beauty, 
until his eyes turned at length to feast themselves 
upon the loveliness of the flowers of heaven. 

A few days before he passed on, the trellised 
red roses in the yard began to open their buds, 
and Arthur, sitting raised up in bed one morning, 



a boy's life 71 

was the first to see them through the window, 
and called my attention to them. It was his 
habit, after having his face and hands washed 
and his hair brushed, to lean back against the 
piled-up pillows. It all comes back to me now 
like a picture, — a silhouette in my memory: 
his mother's light red shawl thrown about his 
shoulders, his hands folded helplessly, child-like, 
across his breast, his face turned appealingly 
towards the window, looking out of it in silence 
so longingly at the roses, at the foliage, and all 
the greenery outside! 

Of what was he thinking? 




THINGS SWEET TO REMEMBER. 

"Cold closer and closer in your hearts his 
* sunshine. That was his life. A blessed 
spirit of divine love ; and no flaw was in him ; 
and he is yours." 

So wrote his aunt, after he had passed on. 
And that is the sweetest comfort that comes 
to our hearts, as we think it all over for the 
thousandth time. To feel reassured beyond 
possible doubt that, when Arthur left us, he left 
no sting of remorse behind, no sore, aching sense 
of regret, no wearying heart-ache for anything 
done by him in all his earthly life, — this was a 
rare blessing vouchsafed to us. He lived in 
such kindly sympathy with all beautiful, true 
and good things that, when he was done with 
them, no one could openly or silently lift up 
hands of reproach against his memory. This 

(72) 



a boy's life 73 

blessed consciousness, these hallowed recollec- 
tions, are now ours, and they sweeten and comfort 
our sorrow as can nothing else. They are the 
things sweetest to remember. We love often to 
think about these, and to speak of them to each 
other,— of his youthful graces of character and 
goodnesses of heart, for these have now become 
the fairest rosary in our memories, told over 
again and again. 

Perhaps the most beautiful and attractive 
feature of his disposition was his unfailing 
thoughtfulness for others. This meant sym- 
pathy for everybody, the putting of himself in 
their places. He was always ready and willing 
to set aside his own wishes or desires to please 
somebody else. So tender was his heart, so 
finely attuned to the joy or suffering of others, 
that it could not refuse the simplest appeal for 
help or sympathy. He was not only happy 
when others were happy, but he suffered when 
others were unhappy. He had known already, 
in his brief life, much of pain and sickness 
and disappointment; and so he could and did 
most quickly and keenly enter into the suffer- 
ings, the troubles and losses of others. In our 
household life he always exhibited a peculiar 



74 

sensitiveness to any personal need or distress. 
Had his mother been working very hard ? He 
seemed in some quickly instinctive way to 
know it, and his invariable question was : 
"Are you tired, mamma ? " or, " Can I help 
you, mamma ? " And then would follow quietly 
the earnest attempt to lighten the burden. It 
might be some necessary detail of housework, 
like his habitual wiping of the dishes, some- 
times sweeping the floor, or making his bed, 
bringing in wood, going to the grocery-store, or 
other errand or task. Whatever it was, he was 
anxious and instantly ready to do the thing 
needing to be done. If his mother was sick, 
there was the quick response in gentle touch and 
soothing voice and tender manner. All his play- 
things had to wait, all the little plans and 
projects dear to his boy-heart were held in 
abeyance, until the little acts of helpfulness 
were done. These home needs and duties so 
appealed to his sympathy that they were not to 
be neglected or postponed. In the same way, 
his spirit of helpfulness flowed forth to help all 
who were tired, or sick, or in trouble. 

Another thing sweet to remember was his 
spontaneous kindness of disposition and conduct 



75 

in general. It greeted you like a delicate fra- 
grance as you came into his presence. When 
he was at hand, all felt it ; when he was absent, 
all seemed to miss it. Stored up in his throb- 
bing little breast was a wealth of good will and 
tenderness for every one and every thing. He 
never knew what malice meant ; there was no 
resentment whatever in his nature. Others 
might attack him, or speak slightingly of him 
(as boys sometimes will of each other), and 
yet it never seemed to rankle in his memory or 
ruffle the peaceful repose of his disposition. 
And this was not weakness, either ; none knew 
better than he how he was being treated ; but 
his idea seemed to be, even though he may never 
have formulated it in so many words, that 
"nobleness enkindleth nobleness." This quality 
of his character was especially noticeable and 
attractive. Free from all ill will himself, he 
carried no cruel shafts of sharply-spoken words 
about with him to wound his friends or play- 
mates. He never lent himself to the low enjoy- 
ment of playing tricks upon others; never 
tormented dogs or cats or other animals, or took 
pleasure in any form of cruelty. Always he 
sought to show kindness to every little creature, 



76 A boy's life 

and by words and actions helped to preach and 
spread the gospel of kindness. 

For this reason his presence was always agree- 
able and sought after, and his companionship 
enjoyable. His whole demeanor and influence 
spoke for peace, kindness and boy-like honor, 
and so he was a favorite at social gatherings, on 
the play-ground, and upon excursions. Very 
pronounced, also, was his disinclination to enter 
into any inharmonious discussion or dispute. 
This avoidance of ill will, of angry feelings, and 
of personal dissensions, was habitual with him ; 
indeed, he scarcely ever violated the ideal of 
peaceable behavior which he had adopted for his 
own. This eloquent attitude of silence on his 
part, this holding aloof from all excitement of 
controversy, was always felt as a rebuke — it 
was an example that was alive with meaning ; 
it was like oil poured upon troubled waters. 

" Kind words can never die; 

Cherished and blest, 
God knows how deep they lie 

Stored in the breast. 
Like childhood's simple rhymes, 
Said o'er a thousand times, 
They, in all years and climes, 

Strengthen and cheer." 



a boy's life 77 

Arthur loved whatsoever was of good report. 
This is sweet to recall of him. Purity of thought 
and word and action was innate, instinctive, with 
him. Most rarely did an unworthy word linger 
upon his lips, and no sensual thought seemed to 
have stained the white radiance of his innocence. 
To look into his clear eyes was to see reflected 
there the honest, ingenuous thoughts of a pure- 
minded boy. Upon the palace-walls of his 
mind there were hung beautiful pictures of all 
things sweet and good which he had ever known. 
All things bright and fair were his by the mag- 
netism of spiritual likeness — the one drew the 
other. Nowhere did he seem more in place 
than among the flowers which he so dearly 
loved. He was a part of the purity of the 
world. 

A deep, abiding sense of loyalty to his parents 
is also one of the fairest things to remember in 
Arthur's life. When present, this is always a 
touching characteristic in children, for it reveals 
to the parents that ideal of themselves which 
their children hold with immovable trust and 
unsuspecting faith. The experience of it is 
always pathetic, since the child idealizes the 
real parent. In this idealization lies the pathos 



78 

of it to fathers and mothers sensible of their 
imperfections. Arthur's loyalty was unques- 
tioning in its child-like devotion and generous 
appreciation. He so loved his parents, and so 
wished them to love him in return, that obedience 
was never a hard or irksome thing for him, 
never a trial or an unhappy experience. Bather, 
it seemed always to be regarded by him as the 
most natural thing in the world, and as giving him 
a glad chance to do something to show his real 
filial affection. Usually no urging was necessary ; 
to know our wishes was enough. He seemed 
anxious, indeed, to do the thing we wished him 
to do. His obedience was as natural and spon- 
taneous as was his loving, and the one grew out 
of the other. It was voluntary, and full of the 
joyful spirit of his best impulses and highest 
gratifications. This meant a high sense of loy- 
alty; for boy-nature is naturally self-assertive 
and inclined to be greatly wrapped up in its self- 
hood — in meeting its own many petty wants, its 
ever-changing, never-satisfied desires. Obedience 
to Arthur meant what it should mean to all boys — 
the setting aside for the time being, when neces- 
sary, of some of his own personal plans and 
cherished schemes for boyish pleasure. It meant 



79 

to him self-restraint, a thoughtfulness of what 
was due to others,, the reasonable subjection of 
the boy-will to the parental will, — and yet all in 
such a cheerful, hearty manner that it was really 
a harmony of wills and brought in the end an 
enjoyment all the keener and more satisfying. 

His joyful, loving obedience, the implicit, 
whole-souled loyalty of his nature to whatever 
was right and just as we commended these to 
him, becomes for us one of the most gracious 
memories of his life, " sweetening and gathering 
sweetness forever more." 



With the coming of the lonely, hushed days 
after the last sad services had been rendered, 
there came letters from kinsfolk and friends. 
Sweet indeed is the memory of these messages, 
fragrant from the hands of a sincere love and 
affection. How precious they were in those 
hours of freshly-made sorrow, when we felt so 
stricken and bereft; how they fed the hunger 
for familiar human presence, and assuaged the 
grief that could not be changed, letting us feel 
the heart-beat of a tender sympathy common to 



80 



A BOY'S LIFE 



all who know such sorrow. These letters took 
us by the hand with tender pressure, lifted up 
our heads, and, looking as it were into our faces, 
showed us, present with others, the same grief 
that was ours. This one told of a memory, that 
one of a heart-ache, another gave comforting 
assurance of feelings " too deep for tears," while 
yet another uttered her heart's confession of 
gratefulness for the beautiful life she had known. 
Precious letters, — they have helped, and their 
memory lies hid among our heart's treasures. 




XL 

THE STORY OF THE DRAGON-FLY. 

Yet Love will dream, and Faith will trust 
(Since He who knows our need is just), 
That somehow, somewhere, meet we must. 

— Whittier. 

Tt was during Arthur's last illness that he told 
* his mother "the Story of the Dragon-Fly," 
which he had remembered for three years. We 
cannot recall that he had ever spoken of it before, 
but he evidently had treasured it up as one of 
the things sweet to think about, and in which he 
believed with all the touching faith of a child's 
nature. He must have thought of its meaning 
many times, for this meaning had evidently 
become his most earnest personal conviction 
about the future life. 

The telling of it, and his own confession of 
faith, came about in a very natural and beautiful 

(81) 



82 a boy's life 

way. A mother had called one evening to tell 
us of the death of her daughter, who had been 
married only a few months. Arthur, in the 
adjoining room, had heard the sad news and the 
conversation which followed ; and soon afterward 
his mother, preparing him for his night's rest, 
made ready herself to sleep beside him, as was 
her practice. Their talk during this time drifted 
naturally to the subject of dying; and, for the 
first and only time, Arthur then seemed to be 
in a mood to speak about this. 

After a thoughtful silence, he suddenly asked 
his mother if she remembered a certain story 
which his father had once told about living 
again after death ? Arthur called it " the Story 
of the Dragon-Fly," but the real title of it is, 
" Not Lost, but Gone Before." It is a beautiful 
Nature-analogy, written by Mrs. Gatty in sug- 
gestive illustration of the possibility of continued 
existence beyond the change called death. It 
had been quoted in a sermon delivered in Iowa 
three years previously, at an Easter Commemo- 
ration-service in which both church and Sunday- 
school joined. Arthur was present, being then 
nearly thirteen years of age, and it seemingly 
made a great impression upon his youthful 



83 

imagination. He remembered the main facts 
in the story, and narrated them simply to his 
mother, to refresh her memory : 

There was once a beautiful wood-pond, in the 
lower depths of which the grubs of dragon-flies 
lived. They fell to talking one day about what 
became of the frogs who rose to the top of the 
water and disappeared. The frogs, in response, 
tried to give them some information about the 
kind of world it was into which they rose, but 
it was very unsatisfactory. Finally, one of 
the grubs became sick, and, feeling that some 
change was coming, it climbed up the rush-stalks 
and disappeared from the sight of those left 
below. This caused great excitement and wonder 
among the other grubs, and promises were exacted 
and given among them that whenever the time 
came for the next grub to go in the same way, 
he would return and tell his mates what that 
upper world was like. Others soon disappeared, 
but none of them ever returned to tell what 
kind of a world it was to which they had gone. 
All agreed as to the irresistible desire to go 
which urged their fellows to rise to the surface, 
but none could explain the mystery of the fail- 



84 a boy's life 

ure to return. Yet this was easy to explain if 
the opportunity had been possible. The dragon- 
flies, into which the grubs had changed when 
they disappeared, had not forgotten their friends 
left behind nor their promises to return; but 
they had found, when they arrived in that other 
world, that they could not, with the new and 
different bodies which they then possessed, return 
again into the watery depths. They could only 
flit very lightly and happily over the surface of 
the water above, with their beautiful wings and 
shining bodies, and look down lovingly and 
longingly at their grub-mates below in their old 
haunts. The dragon-flies themselves knew all 
about the conditions of their fresh, happier life, 
but they could not carry or tell this knowledge 
to their grub-friends, nor could the grubs see or 
hear them. They had made a promise which 
they could not keep. They knew that their 
grub-friends would all come sometime to live the 
life of a free-soaring dragon-fly, but never could 
a dragon-fly return to his former life, or tell his 
former friends of the new and beautiful exist- 
ence he was then living. Each fresh arrival 
from below made those above happier, and happy 
was each new comer to find, not a strange and 



a boy's life 85 

friendless place, but a beautiful and attractive 
home rilled with the friends gone before. Oh, 
if those below could only know ! But all they 
could do was to live in hope and trust of a 
reunion beyond. 

This was the story. And as Arthur concluded 
the narration he said to his mother, in his most 
earnest manner: 

"Do you know, mamma, that's just the way I 
think it will be with us when we die ! " 

His mother assured him that she thought it 
a very beautiful story, and was glad he had 
remembered it so well and believed it to be true 
for all of us when the great change comes. 

After making his closing remark as given 
above, — his confession of hope and faith in the 
life beyond, — Arthur seemed satisfied, and went 
trustingly to sleep. 

How touchingly beautiful are such hope and 
faith in a child ! There is in this world nothing 
else like it. How it shames the doubts and 
questionings of maturer years ! There is in it 
something so pure and sweet, so full of utter 
trust and unsuspecting faith, that it would seem 
as if the Good God must make it come true so 



86 

as not to disappoint these trembling little hearts 
who have accepted this glorious thought as just 
the thing He has in store for them. 

At any rate, this was Arthur's confident, earn- 
est faith. Although he was not quite thirteen 
years of age when he first heard this story, the 
suggestion in it took deep root in his mind. He 
evidently had thought it over many times, carry- 
ing out the applications of the analogy to the 
experiences and hopes of this human life, and 
had concluded that this was the way it is to be : 
that we are to live again in forms different from 
these earthly bodies, and in a far more beautiful 
land; and that, while we might wish to come 
back to earth to revisit our friends and to assure 
them that we were still living, this gratification 
of the earthly longing would not be possible 
since the conditions of life would be so different. 
The loved ones of earth can go onward and 
upward, but they cannot return to earthly con- 
ditions. The friends left behind must therefore 
be content to live simply in hope and trust in 
the beautiful life beyond. Such was Arthur's 
thought. 

And truly, have any of us a better or more 
rational faith than this ? Drawn as is the beau- 



a boy's life 87 

tiful analogy from the domain of great Nature, 
it has a striking force illustrative of the prob- 
ability, if not the certainty, of man's spiritual 
destiny. The analogy is surely in Nature as a 
fact ; the conclusion is apparently a just infer- 
ence. Why, then, should we not be bold enough 
to apply it ? Why may we not believe that the 
Good God, in this wonderful transformation in 
the life of a dragon-fly, has given us an object- 
lesson in spiritual transformation also ? If God 
can so translate and transform the physical life 
of an insect, why shall he not also translate and 
transform, in some similar manner, the spiritual 
nature of man ? 

Eeason as we may, we cannot escape the 
suggestive force of the analogy. Moreover, 
when we recall how, through the simple narration 
of this story, the thought in it appealed so effect- 
ively to the mind of a young boy, we must needs 
believe that it carries with it something sanative 
and even prophetic, to fresh untrammeled natures. 
May we not at least cherish the physical fact 
described as a psychic hint, until we can show it 
to be an illuminating spiritual demonstration ? 
Emerson says : " The best proof of a heaven to 
come is its dawning within us now." Nature 



88 a boy's life 

gives no promise that she does not or will not 
sometime fulfil; she raises no hungers which 
she is not prepared to satisfy ; she implants no 
instincts without furnishing also some means for 
their gratification. I find ever that the most 
crushing answer I am able to make to my doubts 
and questionings as to the future life is : If 
there is none, there ought to be ! Therefore I 
am impelled to hold the universe to that degree 
imperfect and morally unjust, if it does not meet 
the grand promise in man's spiritual nature with 
a glorious fulfilment. Uniting reason and anal- 
ogy, instinct and the moral sense, the thought of 
continuous spiritual growth and conscious per- 
sonal existence hereafter comes as the sanest 
conclusion in a sane world. 

When we ponder Arthur's spiritual fate ; when 
we strive to vision the experiences at present 
being allotted to him by the mighty cosmic 
"Power not ourselves," now that his physical 
habitation has fallen into decay, we cannot make 
any other thought seem so certain to us as that 
he is " not lost, but gone before "; not destroyed, 
but transformed ; not banished forever from our 
love, but waiting until we, too, shall leave the 
physical body behind and, taking on the new 



A boy's life 89 

form of the spiritual life, shall once more join 
our lives and loves beyond. Our hearts cry out 
for this comfort of humane belief ; our reason 
pleads constantly its justice; and our faith in 
the Eternal Goodness holds us loyal to this great 
and ennobling Hope of the world. 

Perhaps the belief and feeling in our minds 
is most fittingly expressed in that touchingly 
human little poem by James Whitcomb Riley, — 
" He's Just Away ": 

"I cannot say and I will not say 
That he is dead — he's just away. 
With a cheery smile and a wave of his hand, 
He has wandered into an unknown land, 
And left us dreaming how very fair 
It needs must be, since he lingers there. 

"And you, O you, who the wildest yearn 
For the old-time step and the glad return — 
Think of him faring on, as dear 
In the love of There as the love of Here ; 
Think of him still the same, I say — 
He is not dead — he's just away." 



XII. 



THE MINISTRY OF HIS LIFE. 



Living, our loved ones make us what they dream ; 
Dead, if they see, they know us as we are. 
Henceforward we must be, not merely seem ; 
Bitterer woe than Death it were by far 
To fail their hopes whose love can still redeem ; 
Loss were thrice loss which thus their faith could mar. 

— Arlo Bates. 

Some things are so preciously true that we 
long to confess them at once. Moreover, 
when these things concern another to whom, 
unconciously to him, we have been indebted for 
years, we feel the injustice of a merely conven- 
tional silence. Why should not men and women 
reveal to each other, more than they do, the 
spiritual influences which have been most helpful 
in their lives ? Not to acknowledge the things 
we owe to others' lives is to lessen human life 
itself by so much of its goodness. 
(90) 



91 

The confession I joyously long to make here 
is the pervasive and persuasive influence of this 
young boy's life upon my own. It is but a simple 
statement of fact to say that his ministry for 
me began with his babyhood, continued in deep- 
ening touches and widening circles as the years 
of his boyhood went by, and that now, when 
he is no longer present in the flesh, he is yet 
moulding me in my spiritual life and blessing 
me more richly than I am able to describe. 

Emerson has assured us that "What we do 
not call education is more precious than that 
which we do call so." Our spiritual enlighten- 
ment may come from very humble and hidden 
sources, and we are the inheritors of and are 
moulded by all the spiritual influences touching 
our lives. Painful as it is in one sense to con- 
fess it, yet I hesitate not to admit that this 
young boy's life has been the most helpful 
stimulus to my own personal life, the most per- 
suasive teacher of all my years. How has this 
great influence been exerted? It is difficult 
to explain. I can only state the fact, to me 
undeniable, that by the power of intimate com- 
panionship, by the simple influence of the good- 
ness regnant in his boy-life, and by the mild 



92 a boy's life 

persistence of his gentle spirit, I was won to 
love the good for its own sake as never before. 

It is a difficult and even hopeless task to seek 
to trace the odor of a flower to its secret dwelling- 
place in the corolla-shrine of its most delicate 
life. We are satisfied to look at its sculptured 
beauty, to enjoy its delicious fragrance, and we 
shrink from prying into what is so intangible in 
essence and so exhilarating in its effects. Some- 
thing of this feeling accompanies the efforts we 
make to trace subtle personal influences to their 
origin in the recesses of spiritual character. We 
feel the sunshine of a personal presence, and we 
know there must be a source whence the sunshine 
proceeds. But we stop not to speculate, we 
linger simply to bask in its genial, life-giving 
warmth. We feel the touch of contact of a 
beautiful human spirit in some precious reveal- 
ment of intimate experience, and the current of 
a diviner life passes into ours. In this way all 
of us are the spiritual pensioners of each other's 
lives. We give and take freely and unconsciously 
the best gifts, and never know the fullness of 
the blessings we have given or received. 

Children are more natural and transparent 
than adults, and so their characters are read more 



A boy's life 93 

surely. This is what we first feel when brought 
into contact with them. And hence the spirit 
of a boy's life is quickly manifest and easily 
felt. The clearness and singleness of the spirit 
of Arthur's life were self-revealing ; one had to 
be in his presence for a few minutes only to get 
an unmistakable impression of the kind of a 
boy he was in truth. Honesty and gentleness, 
elemental in his nature, were always speaking 
from his face, his voice, and in his whole manner ; 
and these were irresistible in their winsomeness, 
in their subtle but pervasive power to affect and 
attract others. His affection and loyalty were 
impartial. No selfish consideration or advantage 
whatever could induce him to take sides with 
either father or mother as against the other. 
When the spirit of inharmony obtruded itself 
for the moment into the usual peacefulness of 
the home-nest, he suffered keenly while it lasted, 
and was very careful to add nothing to it by 
word or action ; instead, himself kept the bond 
of peace unbroken. He was for peace ever, with 
all the strength and impulse of his calm, self- 
poised character. He had tasted the blessedness 
of the beatitude of peace long before he had 
read it. Thus the silent ministry of his personal 
influence in our home went on unceasingly. 



94 a boy's life 

Perhaps the influence of his life was most 
helpful to me in those respects in which his 
character was of finer tissue, of a higher emo- 
tional standard than my own. Where his spirit 
was sanest, and his disposition the more sym- 
pathetic, the moulding power of his personal 
presence was most compelling and permanent. 
The imperfections and weaknesses of my own 
character never showed so plainly as when 
brought into comparison with his almost con- 
stant wholesomeness of conduct. Had I a defect 
exposed for which I suffered? The criticism 
of his silent possession of the opposite virtue 
became the most eloquent condemnation of my 
personal fault. Did I give way to quick feelings 
and anger? His calm demeanor was always 
present to remind me of how far I had stepped 
aside. Did I say and do things unworthy of a 
wise and true father ? The silent look of pitiful 
pain which swept over his face was convincing 
testimony that I had done wrong. Only those 
parents who have suffered a similar experience 
can know how far-reaching, unforgettable and 
transforming in their influences and effects upon 
themselves are such character-ideals when incar- 
nated in the life and conduct of a dearly-beloved 
child. 



95 

By the power of his own unconscious example, 
and by the demonstration of personal contrast, 
he was always teaching us as a household the 
superiority of the better way. We were made 
to see how beautiful and attractive it was, illus- 
trated in daily life by a boy who so spontaneously 
lived in the atmosphere of the spiritual life, full 
of love, sympathy and kindness. 

But pervasive and deep-searching as was the 
influence of his character, gentle and constrain- 
ing as was the ministry of his spirit while yet 
with us and moving actively about in the domestic 
life of which he was so genial a part, yet, now 
that his personal presence is absent from our 
lives, his power for good grows still more per- 
suasive and beautiful, and his influence becomes 
more spiritual and winning than ever. Hope- 
lessly true is it that the well-known boyish 
form is no longer here; the softly-modulated 
words we no longer hear ; the caressing touch we 
do not feel, and we long in vain for another look 
into those luminous, soul-full eyes : but a Presence 
as of the real Arthur seems ever more to be 
about us. The same spirit, only more self- 
revealing and ethereal, freer and more joyful, 
seems to be still carrying on the delicate, silent 



96 A boy's life 

work in our midst which he began when a child. 
The Arthur whom we but dimly saw before, we 
now see with the clearness of spiritual insight. 
We thought we knew him while he was with us, 
but we now know that we did not see clearly ; 
our vision was blurred by the physical mediums 
of expression; while now, looking through the 
eyes of memory washed clear by the tears of a 
sweet and hallowed sorrow, we see him more 
truly as he was and is. Whenever we invite his 
pure spirit to come to us, we can now enter his 
real presence at will, unfettered and undisguised 
by the fleshly organs of speech and sense. Often 
as I walk forth in the fields and woods, or stand 
looking over the familiar landscapes, dwelling in 
the sweet memories of departed days, he seems 
to come and stand beside me with his gentle 
hand in mine, or with his arm drawn shyly 
through my arm as in the days of closest earthly 
companionship, while I impulsively make the 
old habitual response. At such moments, giving 
myself up to the pure thought and the tender 
emotion evoked by the impression of his pres- 
ence, I stand on hallowed ground, and he comes 
nearer to me in spirit and in truth than in 
any personal contacts or intimacies to be recalled 



a boy's life 97 

in our lives. I seem then in the mood most 
favorable for the reception of spiritual influences 
and impressions, and I feel the sympathetic 
necessity of Tennyson's verse : 

" How pure at heart and sound in head, 
With what divine affections bold, 
Should be the man whose thought would hold 
An hour's communion with the dead." 

At such times Arthur and I are brought very 
closely together, into a oneness of spirit and 
understanding such as did not seem possible in 
the old days of physical separateness and indi- 
vidual personalities. From him there obtrudes 
now no hindrance of sense to color the soul- 
impression made, and for the moment I myself 
seem largely freed from the material bonds of 
the flesh and of time. The interblending of 
spiritual thoughts and feelings seems complete, 
and in this experience I feel that I have been 
ministered unto by a pure communion with the 
real Arthur, — with him whom I knew here only 
in part, though loving him purely and unre- 
servedly. Thus his spirit continues to help and 
bless me in my highest needs more than I am 
able to confess, and I write these words here, not 



98 

because of a conventional license of speech per- 
missible in time of grief, but because they best 
describe a chapter in the actual emotional expe- 
riences of my later years. 

We constantly find in life new illustrations of 
the truth that what we seem to lose is often 
more than made good to us in what we gain out 
of the loss. This is a great spiritual fact, though 
seemingly paradoxical in its statement; and in 
the personal experience of sorrow no demonstra- 
tion of the law of spiritual compensation is more 
immanent and eloquent. We who knew him 
say sometimes, by reason of the habitual iteration 
of speech, that we have lost Arthur, having in 
mind the sense of our loss of his personal pres- 
ence, of the inconsolable and ever-present grief 
at his absence. And we know that we have lost 
something out of our earthly lives and experiences 
which can never more come back to them. It is 
like the memory of a gracious day which, once 
gone, is gone forever. The song, half-sung, has 
been silenced ; the fair vision which promised so 
much has faded away, never in full to be realized. 
And so the painful, unchangeable fact remains: 
in physical form and bodily presence we no 
longer see him ; — 



99 
" He has disappeared from the Day's eye." 

From the haunts that knew him best, there is an 
unbroken absence of one of the sweetest spirits 
that ever found itself at home in human organ- 
ism. We miss the winsome Arthur-boy whom 
we thought we knew so well ; we can no longer 
look into his glowing eyes, or hold his gentle 
hand caressingly in ours as in the days departed. 
We find ourselves longing mournfully and with- 
out ceasing 

" For the touch of a vanished hand, 
And the sound of a voice that is still." 

But — if there is a " gain to match " and more 
than match such a loss as this of ours, we are 
forbidden to call this experience a loss ! 

And this is what has really occurred. Some- 
thing incommunicably precious and holy has 
come forth from it all, which closes our lips from 
all complaint and makes our sorrow dumb with a 
secret and subtle consciousness that not to have 
known this experience would have been the 
greater loss. In place of the physical absence 
has come a spiritual presence, — the same pres- 
ence with which we were so familiar in its earthly 



100 A BOY ? S life 

tabernacle, but now bodiless, unseen by these 
eyes, freed from the organs of the senses, and 
become, instead, the pure and inspiring memory 
of the royal goodness of a sweet youthful life. 
His spirit was with us before, but, through our 
blindness, wholly tethered to the earth-plane, 
hedged in by his and our own physical limita- 
tions, however peering out at us in moments of 
deep emotion and speaking to us in the terms of 
human affection and endearment. His was a 
most gracious spirit modestly appealing to us for 
just recognition, even for full appreciation. But 
our eyes seemed beholden in those days by the 
familiar contacts of time and space and earthly 
relationship, and we could not see clearly the 
radiant beauty of soul-life enshrined in that boy- 
ish figure. His spirit of spontaneous goodness 
had diffused itself so gently, so self-forgettingly 
for us all, during his youthful life, that its absence 
alone brought to us the full realization of its 
worth and blessedness. 

Now in " diffusion ever more intense " it con- 
tinues to permeate our whole lives. He is with 
us wherever we go and however we abide in 
these changing earthly tents which we call 
"home." In very delicate personal ways his 



a boy's life 101 

life still ministers unto us in unmistakable and 
deeply spiritual helpfulnesses. He is in all our 
thoughts to sweeten, elevate and enlarge them. 
He has become the ideal, sometimes conscious, 
sometimes unconscious, that draws us ever up- 
ward and onward towards the better life possible 
to us. 

The influence of his spirit and of his attitude 
toward life has touched deeply the springs of 
ethical conduct and spiritual motive in my own 
personal life. This fact will scarcely admit 
of description, being almost too elusive for 
expression ; and yet I am constantly made con- 
scious of it, sometimes painfully, sometimes joy- 
ously. I find myself often asking : " What would 
Arthur have done ? How would he have met 
this obstacle ? " And then, without effort, the 
spirit and example of his habitual conduct rises 
before me as the standard, and I try to rise to 
the level of that high attitude. He thus, again 
and again, becomes incarnated spiritually in my 
life, and " though dead he yet speaketh," his 
spirit to mine, his heart full of love to my heart 
full of need. 

The thought of him has become the tenderest 
reality of my life, filling me with a nameless 



102 

longing and hunger for that Ideal Goodness 
of which his own life was so inspiringly and 
attractively suggestive. I feel that there was 
something sweet and pure in him which flowered 
forth from the Divine Sweetness and Purity. 
This blessed thought calls forth my best impulses 
of emulation, and tends to awaken my dormant 
possibilities of nobility. It thrills me at times 
with an ecstatic emotion which ploughs deep 
through the hardened strata of my past habits 
and tendencies and leaves me softened and 
mellowed and open to all tender and divine 
influences. 

His was a boy's life "filled with grace and 
truth "; and he lived with me in all the mutually 
sacred relationships and tender ties of father 
and child with reciprocal understanding and 
love. 

His is now an angel's life, chastening and 
exalting my own life with a sorrow indescribably 
sweet, holy and helpful. 



XIII. 

"hope, hope, hope." 

What can we do, o'er whom the unbeholden 
Hangs in a night with which we cannot cope ? 

What but look sunward, and with faces golden 
Speak to each other softly of a hope ? 

— F. W. H. Myers. 

Tt was always a struggle with him. Nature's 

* healing influences were continuously more 

than neutralized by the inroads upon him of 

malignant diseases. The list of these which 

he experienced seems almost too long for belief, 

and when recalled one ceases to wonder that 

during his few years his life swung like a 

pendulum between hope and despair. He thus 

knew what suffering, trouble and disappointment 

mean, as few grown persons know. But, through 

all these grievous experiences of his childhood 

and youth, Arthur was patient, uncomplaining 

and cheerful. 

(103) 



104 

What this persistent attitude meant to hini, 
and what it cost him, we can estimate when it 
is recalled that all such experiences are directly 
opposed to those of healthy childhood, and 
disastrous to many plans and dreams which 
naturally bud into promise of fulfilment with 
the coming of the years of boyhood. "What 
shall I do now?" "What can I do next?" 
These were the constantly reiterated questions 
of his many days of confinement indoors when 
not too ill to play. He often said that if he 
could only get through the list of diseases that 
belong to childhood, then he would have a chance 
to live and enjoy life; but when the diseases of 
grown people began to afflict him, he felt that 
this addition was more than he could endure. 
Through all, however, of the many postpone- 
ments of pleasure, and the varied disappoint- 
ments connected with the loss of many things 
dear to every healthy boy's heart, he kept up his 
courage, hoping for the best, looking for final 
recovery, and trusting that his road, which had 
been an almost unvarying course of unpleasant 
and painful experiences, would yet take a turn 
and pass into the sunshine and cheer of good 
health and happiness. 



a boy's life 105 

There were times, it is true, when even his 
strong, persistent hope seemed to fail him, and 
at such times he would exclaim : " It doesn't 
seem worth while to hold on any longer," or, " I 
don't think I can hold on any longer": but this 
partial eclipse of his patience and fortitude 
would only be temporary. A little sympathy, a 
few words of cheerful assurance, and the pre- 
dominant sunshine of his hope would again 
shine forth to gladden us all. Where else can 
such patience and faith be found as in the lives 
of children ? The virtues represented in the 
calendar of the saints would, I believe, pale 
beside the simple recital of the heroic denials 
and touching saintliness of conduct evinced by 
childhood. 

Thus Arthur lived in and by Hope. He had 
learned the need and value of it ; he had learned 
to look for its beautiful coming, to prize its 
cheerful face, remembering how frequently it 
had saved him from dark days and gloomy 
prospects by its timely arrival and uplifting 
presence. This Hope was it which fed his 
hungry heart when his patience became weary 
and the thing he had so longed for seemed to 
slip farther and farther away till it disappeared 



106 

from sight. What a gospel of good news and 
cheer did this young boy thus preach to those 
about him, as, rising above each new disappoint- 
ment, he let the glad Hope that was in his heart 
shine forth from his face and sing clear in the 
tones of his voice ! 

This example of Arthur's is left us now to 
cheer our remaining years with Hope. This is 
to be the continuance, in part, of the gracious 
ministry of his life — the eternally cheering 
assurance rising in our hearts that there is some- 
thing in human life so pure and good that, if we 
can but attain to it, or even journey towards it, 
the striving for it will be supremely worth our 
while ; and that through all life's minor, earthly 
strains of discouragement there is to be heard as 
the key-note of it all this brave major tone of 
heavenly Hope. 

Yet this faith that now holds in its loving 
embrace our greatest sorrow, and leaves it 
unembittered, has been bought with a great 
price of spiritual wrestling and agony. With 
the gathering of the Death-Shadow and the 
consciousness of what it bore away out of my 



107 

life, there came to me, until the shadow passed, 
mental conflicts and soul-struggles which threat- 
ened to lead me into the land of Despair and 
there leave me alone in my misery. My former 
edifice of faith was rent and rocked to its very 
foundation-stones. Doubts surged in and mocked 
at my firm beliefs, and it seemed at times as if 
my innermost conviction of the moral saneness 
of the universe would be torn up by the roots. 
Is there a good God ? Is there eternal justice ? 
How can He think it best, or right, thus rudely 
to break tenderest human ties by taking our 
loved ones away from us ? These embittered 
interrogatories of freshly-made sorrow pressed 
upon me, and my despoiled soul was thrown 
back upon itself for answer. The fantasies of 
materialism joined in the attack upon my faith 
in the spiritual verities of the universe, and the 
conclusions of reason, whether en this side or 
that, were quickly overborne by opposing revul- 
sions of feeling, until all things seemed uncertain, 
all thought useless, and the so-called realities 
of life only fictions of the imagination. This 
storm of doubt and questioning swept over my 
soul's anchorage in the historical faith of the 
past and in the intuitive faith of the present, 



108 A boy's life 

and left me desolate. Could the serene faith of 
Jesus, eighteen hundred years ago, satisfy the 
longing anguish of my bereaved heart here and 
now ? Where was Arthur ? What was his fate ? 
Had he a home, and had he found a father and 
mother in the spirit-life ? Did he live in a 
Celestial Country whose glory and happiness so 
exceeded those of the land he had left that, 
perhaps like some of the dragon-flies, he was 
too happy to wish to return ? — or was he power- 
less to do as he wished ? How was it in truth ? 
Looking up into the clear face of the sky at 
night, into those depths of stars glittering in the 
visible heavens, God's handiwork, my heart's 
hunger compelled me to ask again and again: 
"Oh, where art thou to-night, dearest Arthur- 
boy — where, where ? " The universe seemed so 
very large, such infinite spaces were on every 
hand, that in the midst of all its wide free- 
dom and illimitable beauty he might become 
entranced, lost in wonder and happiness at the 
newness and glory of it all, and forget — possibly 
forget ! 

But I could not feel that he would forget us. 
And yet this ignorance — this ignorance ! 

Over and over again these thoughts and doubts 
and questionings thronged through my mind, 



A boy's life 109 

until they seemed to have worn grooves in the 
fibres of my brain so that everything about which 
I tried to think turned at length into these deep- 
cut channels of the mental experience through 
which I was passing. 



*? 



The star which rose at last over this waste of 
troubled spiritual waters was that star of Hope 
which had shone over the whole of Arthur's life. 
As for him it had gleamed amid all his depriva- 
tion and suffering, so now it came at length to 
spread its mild and cheering light over my own 
heart's desolation. Well-founded reason may 
come to reassure ; the moral sense may help to 
preserve self -poise; faith may bring courage: 
but it is Hope which gives peace and comfort 
and will not let the heart break. 

Moreover, his hope helps our hope. If he 
could be brave and cheerful, so ought we to be. 
And thus, when we would complain, silence falls 
upon us and grief is swallowed up in the joy of 
our Great Hope. 

Among the many helpful and comforting 
letters we received after Arthur had gone, were 



110 



these beautiful and compassionate words from a 
brother-minister : — 

u And so the great trial has come to you both 
again. That you will both meet it bravely I do 
not for a moment doubt ; but the finest courage 
will not take away the heart-ache of these days, 
and I wish I might look into your faces and 
thus say to you silently what I have not words 
to express. 

4 What is excellent, 
As God lives, is permanent ' 

keeps running in my head, and so I put it 
down; and then the beautiful words sing on: 

' Hearts are dust, hearts' loves remain, 
Heart's love will meet thee again.' 

But all this and much more you have already 
said to yourselves, and still the mystery remains. 
All we can really do is to light it up with Hope, 
and at times we must wait even for her coming. 
But her beautiful face is sure to shine for you 
both again, by and by, and you will again be 
'at peace about God and about death.'" 



A BOY ? S LIFE 111 

And so it was, and is. Hope's beautiful face 
shines again, and we know now why it is true 

that 

" 'Tis better to have loved and lost 
Than never to have loved at all." 

This same key-note of hope, as shown in 
Arthur's life, was pathetically referred to at the 
final service at the church where he had spent 
so many happy hours, when appreciative and 
affectionate words were spoken by one who had 
known of the disappointments of Arthur's life, 
and how he had exhibited through it all such 
undying faith and courage. These words of final 
farewell had the touching impressiveness of the 
simple truth : 

" And now that Arthur's earthly life is ended, 
what better word of benediction can I leave with 
you, sorrowing friends, than that which was the 
inspiration of his life, — Hope, Hope, Hope." 

I have found much comfort and inspiration in 
often standing beside that spot of hallowed 
ground where we laid to rest his earthly dust. 
This mound has served to us as the visible link 



112 A boy's life 

binding his earth-life to our thought of that new 
experience into which he has entered. The 
hours there have taught me many things ; in 
them I have found great help. 

One day as I thus stood, with the sense of 
loss and desolation sweeping over me and the 
sadness and loneliness of the years to come rising 
into a dumb kind of consciousness, these words 
came to me as if whispered by him for my souPs 
need: 

" Through all the coming years, papa, just be 
glad." 

It was as if his Presence stood beside me and 
sang the words over and over again. They have 
ever since recurred to me at need, and have 
become the benediction of my life. 

The little poem of Eiley's where the words 
occur teaches such a blessed lesson of gladness 
for the life that now is ours, that it is given 
here entire: 

" O heart of mine, we shouldn't 

Worry so ! 
What we've missed of calm we couldn't 

Have, you know ! 
What we' ve met of stormy pain 
And of sorrow's driving rain, 



a boy's life 113 

We can better meet again 
If it blow. 

c We have erred in that dark hour, 

We have known, 
When the tears fell with the shower 

All alone. 
Were not shine and shower blent 
As the gracious Master meant ? 
Let us temper our content 

With his own. 

"For we know, not every morrow 

Can be sad. 
So, forgetting all the sorrow 

We have had, 
Let us fold away our fears, 
And put by our foolish tears, 
And through all the coming years 

Just be glad." 




XIV. 

"O FAIR, CHASTE SAINT." 

Yet, though thou wear'st the glory of the sky, 
Wilt thou not keep the same beloved name, 

The same fair thoughtful brow and gentle eye, 
Lovelier in heaven's sweet climate, yet the same ? 

— Bryant. 

One day in the latter part of May, in an old 
Vermont apple-orchard, years ago, a strange, 
new bird alighted, and in an alert, frightened 
way looked around. Its plumage was pure white ; 
its neck was long, its wings large, and it had a 
tapering head with piercingly bright eyes. It 
sat still long enough for a young boy to recognize 
with wonder these unusual features of its appear- 
ance, and then it flew away into the unknown 
South. Its glistening white form, reflecting the 
bright sunshine, made the boy feel sure that this 
bird was a visitant from another clime, perhaps 
from another world. Evidently the venturesome 
bird had strayed far from its native haunts, and 

(114) 



A boy's life 115 

was now returning, tired and homesick. But the 
wondrous, indelible, mystical impression made by 
it upon that farmer-boy's youthful imagination 
still remains. He wondered what species of bird 
it was, its reason for wandering into this inland 
country, and what a surprising history it might 
tell of its travels and experiences. It seemed 
to him to resemble a sea-bird of some kind ; it 
was perhaps most like pictures of sea-gulls he 
had seen. And then he thought of the sea, of 
what it must be like, and of the strange life 
possibly lived there by this bird. To him it was 
both a visitor and a messenger from that new 
and unseen world to which his thoughts had 
been carried — that other world of shore and sea 
which to his imagination seemed entrancingly 
beautiful. 

As it was with this bird, may it sometimes be 
with souls ? Do they at times get beyond their 
natural habitat, and into uncongenial surround- 
ings ? Tender hearts here among us, sympathetic 
lives, loving whatever is good and pure and 
noble — do they not seem sometimes to have 
wandered into this life from a country else- 
where, — visitors from that Other World, and as 
yet not acclimated to this ? How we look upon 

/ 



116 A BOY^S LIFE 

them — different in many ways, it would seem, 
from ourselves, though closely related to us ; and 
we wonder if we are to become like them. How 
nobly these lives affect us, — so pure in thought, 
so good and kind in action, so gentle in voice 
and manner ! We look on them to admire, and 
cannot wholly do away with the thought that 
they may be the lost inhabitants of another 
sphere. 

When one of these suddenly leaves us some 
day, unexpectedly, we are startled and pained 
that the fair vision, the white soul, has gone 
from us. At the same time, we seem to have a 
strangely instinctive feeling that the spiritually 
beautiful life belonged to another clime than 
ours, and so has only gone home, leaving us with 
the memory of its gracious presence. 

Fair, white-souled messengers, dwelling with 
us for a few short years of earthly life! may 
we not again greet you, in some home-like 
spot somewhere on the shores of the Greater 
Ocean ? 

How tenderly we recall the impressions made 
upon us in those last days when Arthur was 



117 

unconsciously loosening his hold of the earth- 
life ! His mother thus described the pathos 
of it all when Arthur had passed on: 

" But he wanted to go to school, and kept it 
up until the spring vacation, when he gave up 
and stayed at home with mother for three short 
months. I wish you might have seen him ; he 
grew so beautiful and sweet, his eyes so luminous 
and bright. As I look back it seems like caring 
for an angel whose delicate body was too frail 
for this coarse environment. How happy he 
must be in a more congenial clime ! I used to 
say to him : 'Arthur, if you leave me, I must go 
too.' But here I am, trying to wait until my 
work is done, praying for strength. " 

Arthur's young life reminds us of the glory 
and promise of a bright spring morning; the 
remembrance of it has become a beautiful fra- 
grance wafted over the hills and vales of the 
past by the soft breezes of memory. He lived 
only sixteen years, but in that time he had 
learned the secret of the Beautiful Life, and 
lived it each day. His spirit surely adorned 
with a rare grace the life into which it was sent. 



118 a boy's life 

That he has wandered into the deep glens of Par- 
adise is our sorrow, but it is a golden sorrow. I 
am more grateful for this boy's life — that it was 
spared to me even so long as it was — than I can 
find utterance for. I am so much the better man 
because he lived. His spirit has wooed and 
won me, and I, too, must seek the Highest. 

u O fair, chaste saint, so calm, so true; 
Art thou my sometime fate ? 
How strong my will, how brave my heart, 
To work and wait." 




9t 

Arthur C. Stevens, 
June 25 > 188 1 — June 22, 1897* 



